I Didn't Mean To Turn You On
by Tom Beaumont
Summary: OneShot. George and Izzie find themselves - ahem - interested in the new hospital harassment policies. Rated T for sensuality.


**I Didn't Mean To Turn You On**

* * *

George shuffled into the house, slump-shouldered and be-draggled. His hair had been blown into crazy angles by today's howling coastal winds. He dropped his keys on the table by the door, let his canvas bookbag bang and rumble against the floorboards as it hit, then made his way into the living room, where Izzie sat, cross-legged, on the soft-cushioned couch, bored eyes on the flickering TV screen.

He sighed heavily as he slipped off his jacket and flopped down next to her. Izzie's eyes didn't leave the TV as she continued to pop spoonfuls of Double Fudge Brownie Delight ice cream into her mouth.

George noticed what she was watching. "This 'Remember the 80s?' thing is still on?" he asked, his voice fogged.

"It's on again," she replied.

"And you're watching it again because - "

"I happen to like snarky comedians commenting on pop culture touchstones. Sue me." She held out a spoon of what the pint carton referred to as 'rich fudgy goodness', and he took it.

"Mmph," he sounded. "Thanks."

Izzie still hadn't turned an eye to him. "What happened? You look like you've been through a wringer."

George smacked his lips a bit. "Nothing. Just sixteen hours directing traffic through the Pit. Plus the seminar." He reached out for the spoon again.

She let him have it. "The sexual harassment seminar? That was still going on today?"

"Yep," he replied. "And tomorrow for those who decided to skip out. Not to worry, they're taping everything. You'll get to watch every scintillating moment of it." He took another bite of ice cream. "Correction - you'll have to watch." He repeated, "Have to," just in case she protested.

Izzie frowned. "Oh, yay. I guess I'll find out what a bad touch is versus a good one." She shrugged. "Not like I'd know the difference at this point in my life."

George's face somehow grew longer. "There's more to it than that."

"Really?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied.

Izzie finally turned to look at him. "For example?"

George's eyes met hers. "Okay. Say that the ice cream you're eating there - that you're eating it in a very specific and deliberate manner."

She groaned. "'Specific and deliberate?'"

"The lawyer's words, I swear." He thought for a second. "All right, I'll try to say it like a human being." Another second of thought as he mentally restrung his words. "You are in the hospital cafeteria enjoying your ice cream."

Izzie took the spoon back, and dug it into the dessert. "Like this?" she asked, pushing the frozen sweet into her mouth.

"No," George said. "Like this." He grabbed the spoon from her fingers and with a slow intensity, scraped a small amount of Double Fudge Brownie Delight on to the cold metal, then slipped it between his lips, seeming to savor it.

Izzie suppressed a smile. "Is that supposed to be me?"

"Sometimes," he replied sheepishly. "I've seen you eat ice cream, Iz. Sometimes you eat it like that."

"A-ha," she replied, taking back the utensil. "That's harassment?"

"No," George replied. "The harassment would be if you were eating it like that, and I came up to you and said, 'That spoon's having all the fun.'" His come-on sounded like he was reading it from a Yellow Pages ad.

Izzie shook her head. "Well, not if you said it like that."

"Like what?" George asked.

"Flat. Monotone." She focused her gaze on him. "If I'm going to be harassed properly, you've got to give it a better effort."

"Fine." He cleared his throat a bit, lowered his eyes, made his voice a bit more lascivious. "That spoon's having all the fun."

Izzie's face broke into a dazzling smile. "See the difference?"

"I do, actually," George replied, a chortle escaping him as his tone normalized.

She set the ice cream down, and turned her body toward him. "What else?" she asked.

"What else what?" he responded.

She propped an elbow on the back of the couch, and cradled her jaw in a hand. Her eyes were as warm and soft as her V-neck sweater looked. "What else constitutes harassment?"

"Uhh," he wheedled. "Oh, yeah. Comments on physical appearance."

Her tongue darted out and touched her lips. "Such as?"

George's mind was replaying the image of the tip of her tongue, so naturally, he blanked. "Umm..."

"May I try?" A mischievious smile flickered and danced across her face. "If I saw you walking down the hall at the hospital and I noticed that your butt looked especially good, and I whistled at you."

"Huh?"

Her gaze drifted across him for a moment. "Can't say I haven't been tempted. Especially recently."

He couldn't tell if she was just goofing around with him or if there was something else crossing her mind. Which, of course, it wouldn't. Maybe. "Really?" he asked.

"And your arms," she purred. "Your arms are very - impressive - as of late."

"Doing a lot of chin-ups," he squeaked. "Arm curls, that sort of thing." Her eyes were drawing him in, and he blinked a few times to try to break the spell. "Anyway. Back on topic. And that topic is..."

"Inappropriate comments," she said, sidling ever so slightly closer to him.

"Right," George said. The nearness of her meant he could smell the damp sweetness of her perfume. His mouth was suddenly very dry as he stammered, "It would be like - uh - if I told you that whenever you wear that one - uh - gray T-shirt of yours - "

Izzie nodded. "My Catholic University shirt?"

"Yeah, that one," he said. "It would be like me saying that - well - it makes your - uh - upper - uh - chest area - "

She smirked. "My boobs, George?"

No, he thought. "Yes," he blurted. "It makes 'em look spectacular." He closed his eyes as he caught the words coming out, as if that would keep them in his head. "That would be an inappropriate comment. On so many counts."

"Goes without saying," Izzie replied. "What if I didn't whistle at your cute rear end, but I smacked you on the backside as you passed?"

George swallowed hard. "That would be - uh - inappropriate and unwarranted physical contact."

"Which is wrong," she said.

"Totally," he said. "Another example would be...you're at a nurse's desk, and you're working on some papers, and I come up and I start massaging your neck. Let's say."

Her jaw dropped, making her lips part. "A neck massage? That's inappropriate?"

He tried to ignore how inviting her mouth was. "Now it is, I guess."

She shook her head, then moved closer as she turned her back to him. "This I have to experience - the inappropriate deep tissue massage," she said.

George wanted this to end. "I can't..." he began to protest, when she turned her eyes back to him. They were sadder now, and George felt a twinge of loss in his belly. "...I can't just do it," he finished. "For demonstration purposes, you have to - "

She chuckled. "For crying out loud," she said, straightening herself on the cushions, and mimed going through forms and charts. "Okay. I'm working on papers, turning over papers, writing..."

He stood and moved around the couch behind her slumping form. "And I just walk up, unannounced," he said, pressing his fingers into the tight muscles, "and put my hands on you without first asking - and receiving - permission and start, you know, rubbing and kneading and..."

Izzie reacted instantly and happily to his touch. "Mmm," she moaned. "Yeah. I can see how that could be - oohh - a bad, bad thing to do." She blew out a breath as her skin began to glow.

He felt her quiver underneath his fingertips. "Yeah. And how it might be uncomfortable for - for a lot of people. Who might be walking by. Or around somewhere." He stopped massaging her, and watched her extend and stretch that long, lovely neck.

"So public displays of affection are out," she said, patting the cushion next to her.

"Yes," he said, only slightly amazed to be finding himself sitting exactly where she wanted. "Complete ban on PDA."

"Complete? How complete?" she asked.

"Well - uh - no hand-holding."

"So I can't do this," she said, lacing the fingers of her right hand with his left digits.

His breath was catching in his throat. "Nope. And no touching another colleague in a familiar, intimate way."

"Intimate? Like what?" Izzie reached behind her head and loosed her blonde hair, which fell every which way.

The cascade of her locks did not slow his pulse. "Uh...may I?" he asked.

"Please," she said. "It's the only way I'll learn."

"Right," he replied. "See - uh - let's say that I notice that you've got some hair over your eyes and I want to clear it, so I just smooth it out of the way..." The feeling of her feather-soft blonde mane between his fingers and watching her eyes at the same moment was flooding his brain with impure thoughts, but he couldn't quite make himself pull away. "And I keep running my fingers through it and...I stroke it...and...and...and that is completely inappropriate."

"I see," Izzie said. "So I bet I can't do this, either." She traced his face with the back of her free hand, and then her fingertips.

George felt himself blush. "No. Not allowed."

"Mm. Or this?" She lifted their paired palms and painted her face and neck with his hand. Led it over her collarbone. The hollow of her throat.

He tittered nervously. "That's way, way wrong."

She leaned toward his face. "And I'll bet kissing is strictly forbidden," she whispered.

"Incredibly forbidden," George said.

"So if I just happened to put my lips right here," she said, tilting her head so she was a mere impulse away, "and you came closer, completely innocently, of course..."

"...uh-huh..." Her breath was chocolatey and sweet, he noticed.

"...and we got caught..." Her voice was conspiratorial.

"...that's the...the rub..." She probably tastes like brownies, he thought. Rich fudgy goodness.

"...we'd be in trouble, huh?" she asked, not moving a muscle, like she was ready to pounce. Or accept pouncing.

"So very much," he replied.

"Wow," she said, backing away suddenly. "One day off and I miss a lot."

Of course, Georgie-Porgie, he thought. Izzie was just teasing. Dammit. He tried to hide his disappointment. "Like I said, they...they taped it. You'll watch it tomorrow."

"It's not the same," Izzie said, standing up, shaking her head. "I need to experience things." She stripped off her sweater, revealing a powder-blue cotton brassiere, and acres of soft skin. "Learn by doing." She tossed her sweater at a stunned George, and started unbuttoning her blue jeans as she walked out of the room and headed for the stairs. "Get my hands dirty." She stopped in the doorway, and gave George an unmistakeable look over her bared shoulder as she reached between her shoulder blades to unhook her bra.

Joy and lust and desire flashed through him. "That's a salient point," he said, flying off the couch.

"Thank you," she said, holding the cups over her breasts, in a parody of modesty. "So what to do, what to do?"

George struggled against his shirt. It wasn't cooperating in his effort to pull it off. He felt Izzie's fingers against his bare stomach and chest as she helped it along, and her touch was petal-soft. "I think - and if I'm off-base, you just tell me - I think we have to make the time and work through all these scenarios," he said, muffled by his shirt. "Really get into it."

"That is a great idea," she said, taking him by the hand. "It's the only way. Then we'll know what we can't do any more." She started leading him up the creaking stairs.

"We'll make a list," he said as they reached his bedroom door.

"A mental list of things we can't do," Izzie said, opening it. "But we may have to do everything more than once. So we both remember. My memory - it just ain't what it used to be." She stepped inside and hooked her thumbs on the waist of her jeans. Started to peel them off.

George followed her inside. Closed the door. Then Izzie swiftly confirmed his assumption about the current taste of her kiss.

* * *

Not more than five minutes later, Meredith arrived at her house to see George's bookbag on the floor. His keys on the table.

And his shirt.

And a bra. Not his, she hoped.

Then she saw George, tearing down the stairs in his boxer shorts. Only in his boxer shorts. His expression was laser-focused as he zipped past her, dashed into the living room - where the TV had been left on - to retrieve a pint of ice cream off the coffee table, and raced up the stairs again.

"George?" she called. "Isn't that my - "

He froze in the middle of the staircase. "You wouldn't like it," he coughed. "It's melting. It's all soft and sweet and melting and - I gotta go!" Then he was off again.

Meredith heard his door open and slam. She shook her head as she walked into the living room and sat down, noticing the fuzzy sweater on the couch. She frowned at the TV.

It wasn't that she minded him eating it, not at all. But at least he could share it with someone.

Then she could have sworn she heard George's bedsprings creaking - plus squeals and moans - but decided that it had to be the wind making the old windows shake in their dusty panes and the wall studs grind against the nails. The wind did that to this old house, she thought. And it was an unusually breezy day.

* * *

_**The End**_


End file.
